This lack of immediacy is representative of Sunlit Youth as a whole; it feels overproduced, like some of the essence of what has defined this band for two albums has been polished away. In its place is a more palatable but distinctly less exciting listen.

Teenage Fanclub sounds positively content, and even tranquil. It's not the worst fate for a group of rock lifers, but it doesn't make for the most compelling listening.

It's doubtful Sweatbox Dynasty will make it into anyone's regular rotation, but Fec has no doubt carved himself out a cozy little corner of difficult trash music, and a visit now and then is worth the effort.

Dilla's legacy is invincible at this point, a point proved by the endless artists that still shout him out on their records. However, any lesser musician's entire discography would be forever tarnished by a release as lackluster as The Diary.

While both tracks suffer from their length, there is still an underlying hint of Shepherd's innovative mastery. It's the failure of this to come to the fore that means the Kuiper EP is not the best demonstration of what it's creator is capable of.

This is good. And some of it is very good. The trouble being that, production-wise, these songs want more power than they're given.

Apart from when Future Islands' Sam Herring comes out from behind a tree with an old wizard's rumble on "Ghost In a Kiss," most of the remaining lyrical contributions to 32 Levels, even from Vince Staples and A$AP Rocky, range from decent to deleterious.

The loose mood throughout spills into the playing, which at its best moments strikes a sprightly spontaneity, but also lands elsewhere like a weak punch to the shoulder. By Friday Night's end, you've had some fun, just not enough to make it that memorable.

Basses Loaded is an intriguing study into the influence of different bass players on a legendary band's sonic dynamics, and offers isolated moments of creative triumph--but it's a record overwhelmed by its creators back catalogue, and not one you could imagine having any kind of longevity.

The elementary laments on "Peccavi" conjure a shrug at best. Lines like "Skeptics, eat shit" won't help either (see "End of an Era"). The early Madonna mood of "Tell Me" is the album's finest instrumental moment, but even this feels borrowed.

Heidecker's voice isn't the greatest thing you've ever heard, but it is passable and radio-friendly. It is too bad most of this album is just skippable.

Too much of Strange Little Birds is filler.

There's no escaping a diminishing ability to knock listeners to the floor.

Arguably the album's biggest weakness is that its muffled, messy production doesn't lend itself to the best songs. Still, these guys are just kids and their potential makes them likeable enough.

Love You's sticky problem is the same one that plagues all but the Thriller/Purple Rain-iest of pop records, and it's that everything that comes between the hits sounds like filler in comparison.

This seems to be the goal, to tigh-0rope sentimentality and emotion, sarcasm and genuineness, spoof and homage, and to that end, My Best Human Face succeeds. [May - Jun 2016, p.95]

Certain moments glimmer brighter than others in the murky depths, but the kinetic urgency that hummed under the surface has dissipated and the album mostly just moseys along for 13 tracks. [May - Jun 2016, p.94]

It's hard not to think that either she just hasn't perfected this style yet or it's a one-off detour. Only time will tell, but wherever Dee Dee or Kristin goes, this album proves that it's well worth keeping up with her output.

The buzz never quite lasts. Cuts such as "Neon Dad" and "Acidic" are less thriller, more filler; each is executed with admirable precision, but unable to reach the peak of cranium-dismantling album closer "Crapture."

It's a sinuous and, at times, difficult listen, but these songs are supple enough to sink into, given space and the necessary inclination. It's dance music, sure, just not as we know it.

Some tracks come across like impromptu recording sessions where ANOHNI worked through recently-penned material over production pieces messed around with just before she'd arrived at the studio. Still, there is enough in this unexpected assimilation of talents to hold intrigue.

Paradise sounds contemporary in the worst way, instantly dated and likely soon forgotten by any new audience the band might find.

The Ship sees Eno try his hand with the darker, cinematic side of minimal, and for the most part it works. The melancholic catalysts for the record (The First World War and the sinking of the Titanic) don't transcend quite as powerfully as they could have, though.

While the production sustains its vitality, Congleton's narrow singing range--hidden in the more bizarre, cinematic numbers--gets exposed nonetheless.

The band element is Carpenter's saving grace and is hopefully a sign of what's to come, as the potential for this project remains enticing.

Despite the promise of first single "Prayers/Triangles," most of Gore sits in the latter category--a hillock of doomy pop that cowers beside the band's formidable peaks.

Alas, it is disappointing to opine that on Frightened Rabbit's fifth release, Painting of a Panic Attack, the incorporation of frontman Scott Hutchison's verses of cagey lament and realization into Dessner's poignant pop arrangements feels contrived rather than meant to be.

All in all, it makes for a record whose potential to be exceptional is all-too frustrating.

There is plenty here to suggest that West's magic has not entirely left him, but as a statement of art or true intent, this is a significant misstep from an artist with so much to praise.

Although The White Album is predictable in that its singles are stand-outs, that just feels like another way that Weezer are doing a great job at sounding like Weezer.

The record is less a head-on collision of Knost's signature brand of hazy slacker pop and Gordon's famed confrontational leftfield punk than it is a complete reconsideration of the pair's prior dynamics.

We Disappear's weak spots appear in the occasional retread "whoa-oh-whoa" pop chorus. The band is strongest in scrappy and loud moments like "Hey You."

The closing title track is a pleasant enough number but reverts to the more safe James sound, a slight disappointment after the forward-sounding songs of the late middle of the album

The reverberating sitars that kick off K 2.0 signal that it's business as usual chez Kula Shaker.

Despite its slick, bouncy energy, it doesn't make much of a splash. [Jan/Feb 2016, p.58]

Unfortunately, Night Driver's opening and closing tracks either fade together all too quickly or wade too far into an unpleasant '80s pool. [Jan/Feb 2016, p.57]

This time, tUnE-yArDs, Ebony Bones, and Cibo Matto provide the three most interesting re-creations. Given the strength of their contributions, and the fact that Ono remains such an inspiration to so many experimental female musicians, it's a shame that more women weren't invited.

Bloc Party has always been capable of great and deep thought, even when moving at a high rate of speed. Without that added urgency, Hymns falls flat. [Jan/Feb 2016, p.54]

It's "Pale Snow" and "Learning to Be" that take us furthest in this listening experience. These two dark, sparse ballads ground us; they're the Suede we know and love calling to us through the mists of this parallel twilight where they're setting up camp. One hopes further listens will reveal the rest of the songs somehow doing the same.

You could view these 24 tracks as value for money but Original Machines is an overwhelming and inconsistent listen; less a professionally-minded album, per se, than a sheer outpouring of the entire Keely vault.

The Damien Rice comparisons are unfair because O'Brien is, demonstrably, a much, much better musician than his compatriot. This album shows us that, but it's little that we haven't seen before.

Although it is difficult to imagine any scenario in which listening to this is entirely appropriate, the album was clearly intended as an inspirational totem. Its total strangeness only complicates that effort.

The issue here, though, is that the band seemed more than capable of leaping ahead of their radio-friendly indie counterparts, but slip right back into the abyss with their least ambitious LP to date.

Purple is an enjoyable ride that's unlikely to disappoint avowed fans of the band. But playing it safe and not advancing their thesis substantially invites comparisons to earlier artifacts of their sonic template, artifacts that shine brighter than the present one.

Unfortunately, it plays like a joyless formal exercise that precludes a dialogue with the listener.

Depending on your patience level, this fade-out of Small Black on Best Blues can either be engaging and hypnotic, or repetitive and forgettable.

Despite its proliferation of modern day input, Electronica 1 sounds dated. [Nov-Dec 2015, p.71]

An album of full-on jam band pastiche. [Nov-Dec 2015, p.77]

If he can lay off the muffled sound for his upcoming album of new material, Car Seat Headrest will really be able to take off as an excellent rock project. Until then, put on Teens of Style and yearn for the door to open and to hear these catchy, fuzzy tunes properly.

As If is just another glimmer of something that may never be.

Dead Petz isn't inherently ugly; in fact, there are many gorgeous moments. These moments tend to not go anywhere, though, and they are surrounded by mostly superfluous and even boring songs.

Honeymoon is both over the top in its barely there-ness (is there anything so bold as a pop star refusing to produce a stream of digestible Top 40 hits?) and simply not bombastic enough.

Dodge and Burn is nothing if not heavy-handed in its attempt at conjuring up the same gothic witchcraft The Dead Weather once mastered.

Metric fought harder to gain the spotlight they narrowly missed, ultimately sacrificing integrity and musical wit, a choice that simultaneously dims their hooks and audience stimuli. Pagans In Vegas sees them descend one step further. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.64]

Carly Rae Jepsen and her production team try overly hard to be clever. In the end, what's left is a record that takes itself too seriously to be taken seriously by anyone else.

Baio's debut relies on genre differences to stand out instead of solid songwriting itself, unfortunately letting his solo time predominantly go to waste. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.60]

Everybody's A Good Dog has as many personas as it has tracks. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.61]

[Lead single "Pressure Off" is the] lone successful endeavour in recapturing the "classic" Duran Duran sound. The rest of the album, however, is utterly characterless. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.62]

The beguiling and unique pop element he [Tyondai Braxton] brought to the table left with him, and Battles haven't quite figured out how to replace it. La Di Da Di is an energetic step in the right direction. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.61]

Noctunes, unlike his previous records, is a work suspended in time, amorphous and entrancing, but ultimately too shapeless to hold its own weight. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.60]

There seems to be a frequent clash of interests, whether that is between Le Bon's distinct guitar simplicity and Presley's distortion of the same instrument, or between the Welsh singer's kindergarten aesthetic and the American's stoner haze.

If Dunes was their exploration of the bleary-eyed haze of romance, then Music For Dogs is the clarion call of lucidity, cutting through that fog, certain and electrifying.

Had she taken a few more risks, this could have been triumphant. Sadly, it's nothing of the sort. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.63]

The LP feels more casual than previous ones, but that's by no means a negative. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.79]

The State Of Gold showcases the veteran indie rock frontman's prowess as a lyricist. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.79]

The live shows were deafeningly loud and visceral and the atmosphere is impossible to translate to a record, gamely as they might try. The quality of the recording is very disappointing; varying volume and muffled production suggest it was dashed off in too great haste.

Such restraint should give way to immediate rewards, but gems like the colorful "Reign" and cleverly disheveled "Haggle" are all too often negated by the tedium of tracks like "Clean."

This is a flowery psych-folk album that musters little more than consistent pleasantness.

Little Boots is consciously following pop music's torchbearers. Unfortunately, she's not ready to carry one herself.

Too much of the record comprises exhausting dancehall ballads.

The whole thing is a little cheap, but clever, making it so much fun to be on the receiving end.

At 37 minutes, it's a short 11 tracks, none of which fully succeed in being instantly memorable.

Easy to like, tough to love.

Disappointingly, How Does It Feel has a good dose of the latter [blatant variety of compositions].

He defers too many vocals to his backing gospel singers, and his synth pop sound does nothing to distinguish this from his work with The Killers. Oddly, this is the album's greatest strength.

This is their darkest record yet, but it's saved from drudgery by a heavier sound delivered with furious energy.

Magnifique is less than immersive.

Adrian Younge's film score-like production on this latest team-up doesn't feel as atmospheric or inspired as their first go-round.

While the music itself is less than immersive, it does make a compelling footnote to the formative years of a classic label.

Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin have found a way to freshen up the formula, and the end result is their best album in years.

It's a tired and sluggish affair, barely mustering a pulse under Perkins' mumbling half-assed drawl.

Payola could have been a richer experience compressed into an EP, a subversive power pop that could incandesce the psyches of America's mall-going teens. But even at 44 minutes, it feels overlong, its energy too diffuse for the intended impact.

There's a raw energy, big, booming production, and a clear love of blues licks and gospel vocals here and, true, it's not quite like anything in the guy's oeuvre to date. The thing is, The Stereophonics--a band who might as well be Weller's kids--made this exact same album in 2003.

The Fool contains many songs in line behind that first single; put any one of them on at random and you'll think it's a pretty great pop song. Play them in order though, for 40 minutes, and the experience becomes repetitive and empty.

She fluctuates between disturbingly brilliant to aggravatingly irritating at regular intervals--sometimes even during the course of a single song.

For someone who has experienced genuine tragedy in his life and has made a career of autobiographical subject matter, it's pretty damn dull.

Essentially, Palma Violets are revealed as a bit of a one-trick pony on Danger In the Club, with the novelty of their jangly pub-rock fading as quickly as the taste of the violet-flavored candy that they're named after.

The results are assuredly in Crocodiles' wheelhouse with the occasional surprise.

While Highlights still has many moments of unapologetic fun where Emm and Cohen sound like they could write those gorgeous, summery songs in their sleep, they have also rebuffed and polished their signature sound to the point where every attempt at deeper songwriting gets lost in the gloss.

There are a few gorgeous acoustic arrangements, but it only really clicks when it's leaning more toward the former ("Black Moss," "Noise") than the latter.

With Wilder Mind, they eschew their recognizable sound, supplanting it with a less memorable collection of songs more readily relegated to background music than either of their previous albums. As big and perhaps unanticipated an adjustment as it is, however, Wilder Mind then deepens and improves with each consecutive listen.

Scott is at her best on Sprinter when she loosens the reins and lets her musical roots coalesce with her newer preferred sounds in smaller, more subtle ways. [Apr-May 2015, p.87]

A full slate of 14 tracks will please some fans, but it's easy to see how an editorial ear would remove or reorder several songs for greater overall impact. [Apr-May 2015, p.85]

By trying to be the band everyone wants them to be, Braids have sacrificed the qualities that made them so captivating. And that is one hell of a shame.

The band's hazy rock songs benefit from a nice polish and these are a couple of nice 'n' sleazy summer anthem jams here. [Apr-May 2015, p.89]

Execution-wise, it's perhaps a little too disjointed in nature. [Apr - May 2015, p.88]

Ultimately, it plays like background music forever striving for a place in the foreground. [Apr - May 2015, p.85]

The songs are consistently solid, but few truly shine. [Apr - May 2015, p.89]